


do you want anything i have/will you throw me to the ground like you mean it

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [160]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, The Drift (Pacific Rim), set in the letters era and directly post film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: The Drift is knowing your partner in whole. Hermann may have a little bit of an issue with that, in hindsight.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [160]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57
Collections: Pacific Rim Bingo 2020





	do you want anything i have/will you throw me to the ground like you mean it

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt: Newt wasn't leaving him. No matter what he said or did. After a moment's pause Newt quietly joined Hermann on the bench. Hermann didn't say anything else. Newt wrapped his arms around him without a word. Hermann let out a long, shuddering sigh. He didn't make any movements like he was going to push Newt away so Newt just held him tighter. Hermann leaned into him. This time, Newt could instantly tell that his shoulders were shaking not because he was angry but because he was crying" and for my pacific rim bingo square "drift compatibility" 
> 
> (title from richard siken's _"wishbone"_ )

Since boyhood, Hermann has dreamed of doing grand things. This dream had, for years, driven him to want to be an astronaut; to set foot on other planets, perhaps, even; to help expand the collective human knowledge. To get to see the stars properly, to be closer to them than he ever could be on Earth.

That, however, was not in line with Lars’ plans for him.

As a Gottlieb, the thought of such fantastical pursuits is ridiculous; and, so, Hermann, in accordance with his father’s wishes—and, perhaps, out of a wish to gain acceptance—focuses, instead, on academic pursuits; as his peers play sports in the sun, Hermann remains inside, hunched over his books, studying.

He finds, quickly, that mathematics is something he loves; that ignites a flame within him like (almost) nothing else ever has; and he’s _good_ at it—good enough that he’s multiple grades ahead of his peers by secondary school.

Of course, he doesn’t forget about his dream of being an astronaut—how could he? The thought of getting to experience something so few people ever do takes his breath away. But he does bury it—for such foolishness, as his father would call it, has no place in the mind of Hermann Gottlieb.

That’s partially why he almost throws out the first letter.

It’s the middle of the week, and he has three assignments due in as many days, and he probably hasn’t gotten enough sleep—the latter of which due to the stress of current events, namely, the giant beasts appearing from the ocean. He feels that he deserves some lenience because of that, but doesn’t voice that thought.

The mail slot of his front door creaks open, and then, a moment later, bangs shut, startling him from his writing, and Hermann lets out a sigh. No point in not getting up—he was going to take a break soon anyway, and he’s not going to be able to concentrate for wondering what’s come in the post. Lips twisted into a half-scowl, he rises, taking his cane in hand, and makes his way over to the front door.

There’s a few adverts, a bill, and a singular, sky-blue envelope with a cartoonish galaxy print on it. Hermann stares at it for a moment before leaning over and picking all of them up, and carries them back to his desk.

The bill he puts into the file-organiser in his drawer; the adverts, into the paper-shredder; and then, finally, all that’s left is the blue envelope.

Surely, this isn’t for him? But—no; his _name_ is written on it. A prank, then? He reaches towards the paper-shredder again.

At the very last moment, his curiosity wins out; and he pulls his hand back and opens it.

 _Mr. Gottlieb,_ reads the letter, in a hand that is, quite frankly, deplorable. What follows is a point-by-point essay tearing into his most recent paper—the one theorising on the nature of the kaiju’s origins—.

Hermann’s lips pinch. Who does this person think they _are?_ He’s just about to toss it aside in a rage when, at the very end, in cramped, tiny script—the author had, quite obviously, begun to run out of space—, he catches sight of, _anyway, my point is, your theory isn’t, like,_ right, _but jesus fuck, man, you’re brilliant? Anyway my name’s Newt Geiszler, my return address is on the envelope—let’s talk!_

“Good lord,” Hermann murmurs, and sets the letter down.

He’s heard _of_ Geiszler—the fact that he’s MIT’s second-youngest graduate, and ridiculously widely published means that it’s kind of impossible _not_ to know of him. And Geiszler’s written _him_ a letter? And called him _brilliant_ at that?

 _And also ripped into your work,_ he reminds himself—but then, isn’t that what peers do? Find the flaws in your work so you can correct them?

He flips the letter over. Indeed, there, in the top left corner, is a return address in Massachusetts.

The timer on his phone goes off, reminding him that his scheduled break is over, and Hermann sighs. Well—he’ll simply have to reply to the letter later.

 _Later_ winds up being two weeks; in fact, the only reason he winds up _remembering_ is because Geiszler sends another letter that starts off with, _Dude, did you not get my last letter or something? ‘cause I did say “write back”…_

So he sits down and writes a reply.

It’s history from there.

Geiszler— _Newton,_ Hermann learns, is… He’s not even sure how to put it into words. Idealistic; impassioned. Possibly a little mad, but insanely intelligent, and with a wit that’s sharp as a knife; and, even better—though he apparently moved to the states as a young child—, he’s German.

He’s fond of creating ridiculous theories; one of his letters, two years in, ends with a theory on _soulmates_ of all things.

 _Think about it!_ Newton writes, in an excited scrawl, near the end of the letter, _dude, Drift compatibility is literally the modern equivalent of soulmates! I mean—it’s based on love and trust, right, the one person, or people, who you let see every part of you, whether that’s a significant other, a close friend, or a relative. Like, it’s someone who you_ understand.

 _That’s a bit absurd,_ Hermann replies; and then— _tell me more._

Newton happily does.

 _I bet we’re Drift compatible,_ Newton tells him, in one of their last letters before they meet in person.

 _I doubt it,_ Hermann replies; and his heart aches because he remembers Newton calling Drift partners _soulmates_ , and, well—he refuses to allow himself to dwell on it; but he thinks, if only for a moment: _I wish we were._

That thought is violently excised as soon as their disaster of a meeting.

* * *

It doesn’t hit him until after the Breach is closed.

Up until that point, Hermann’s only really had a select few thoughts in his mind; firstly _make sure Newton survives,_ and then, afterwards, _make sure we all survive,_ so he doesn’t really have a chance, at least for the eight hours between the Drift and the closing of the Breach, to really _think_ about what being Drift compatible with Newton really _means._

Unfortunately, it crashes on him just a few moments after LOCCENT bursts into celebration, and Newton throws an arm around him. “We did it!” he screams, over the hubbub. “Holy _shit,_ Hermann, we did it!”

It’s at that exact moment that Hermann realises that, in the process of “doing it,” they _Drifted_ —which is to say, Newton has seen his _mind,_ and everything in it.

Oh, _dear._

“I think I need to go lay down,” Hermann murmurs, and ducks out from under Newton’s arm and makes a beeline for—well, for anywhere that’s not _here,_ really.

Newton calls after him; and then, a few moments later, Hermann hears his footsteps behind him. “Hermann! Dude, wait up!”

“Newton,” he bites, “please, leave, I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Newton, who’s caught up to him, frowns in his periphery. “We won the war! And we _Drifted_ — _we_ Drifted, Herms!”

“That’s exactly the _problem!_ ” Hermann snaps; halting in his tracks; the words slipping out without thought. “You—all these years, you shout at me and pick apart my work in front of others, and refuse to use my proper title, and then—and now—and now _you’re_ the one I’m Drift compatible with? The one who—who knows me like no one else does, who _I_ know like no one else does? Pah—it’s like a sick _joke!_ ” He throws up a hand. “It’s simply _absurd!_ ”

Distantly, he’s aware that what he’s saying is the product of fear—his fear that, having been laid bare and seen in full by Newton like this, Newton will find him lacking and leave; and that this attempt to push him away is because Hermann would rather consciously push someone away than simply have them leave him; but he doesn’t care; right now, his head is pounding, and his face is hot, and his blood is rushing in his ears with the roar of a great river.

He draws a harsh breath and turns on his heel, walking away from Newton as quickly as he can. This time, he doesn’t hear footsteps following him.

Some time later, he finds himself on the roof. It’s not the first time he’s been here—he has, on occasion, snuck up here after a particularly stinging loss or setback, and indulged in a singular cigarette, looking morosely out over the horizon and observing the buildings and such, but tonight, he barely notices his surroundings, save for the cold metal of the bench he’s sat down on.

The cold wind bites at his skin—he’s left his parka in LOCCENT, and without it, the January weather is unforgiving; but he cannot bring himself to go back inside.

* * *

Newt waits a bit before he goes to try and find Hermann. The other could probably use a bit of time to cool off—he was practically shouting at Newt, shoulders shaking in his anger; and Newt needs a bit to clear his own head, because, even though he knows that Hermann doesn’t mean it—he was in the dude’s head, after all; he _knows_ Hermann’s insecurities—, it’s probably a good idea to wait a bit before trying to talk to him, in case Newt accidentally sticks his foot in his mouth.

The first place he looks is Hermann’s quarters; and then, finding them bare, goes to the lab. Hermann’s not there, either, so his next stop is LOCCENT—maybe Hermann has, in the time since storming off, decided to join the party or something. Newt almost snorts at the mental image of Hermann partying it up, but it’s worth a shot anyway.

Hermann isn’t there, but Tendo is; and, when he sees Newt alone, he beckons him over. “Gottlieb left his coat,” he explains, picking the parka up from where it was thrown over one of the chairs, and hands it to Newt. “Give it to him when you see him, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Newt echoes. “Uh—actually, I wanted to ask, did he come down here?”

Tendo raises a brow. “Hermann? You’re joking, right?”

Newt huffs. “I guess that’s a no, then.” He takes the parka. “You don’t know where he might be, do you?”

“You’ve already tried the lab and his room?” Tendo hums. “He might be on the roof—he used to go smoke up there sometimes, at like, three in the morning. The cameras up there are set to send me a notification if there’s anyone up there.”

“That’s…” _kinda weird,_ Newt doesn’t say; instead, just says, “thanks, Tendo, I’ll check up there.”

Tendo claps him on the shoulder. “Good man,” he says, warmly, and re-joins the throng of celebrators.

Newt almost gets lost a few times on the way there, but he finds it eventually; and, pushing the door open, squints in the bright lights that are set up every so often. “Hermann?” he calls.

There’s no response; but he catches sight of a singular bench, and a small, hunched figure sitting on it. Newt takes a few steps towards the bench just to make certain—and, sure enough, Hermann’s propped his cane up and is hunched over, shivering almost violently.

Newt frowns and walks over to the front. “I brought you your parka,” he says, quietly; and offers it to the mathematician. “You should put it on before you freeze.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, when Hermann doesn’t reply, Newt just sighs and moves a step closer to drape the parka over his bony shoulders.

There’s a bit of quiet; and Newt just stands there, waiting for Hermann to say something.

Finally, he does. “You’re…not leaving?” he croaks; and Newt swallows thickly, remembering everything from the Drift.

“No,” he says.

Newt isn’t leaving him. No matter what he says or does. After a moment’s pause, Newt quietly joins Hermann on the bench. Hermann doesn’t say anything else. Newt wraps his arms around him without a word.

Hermann lets out a long, shuddering sigh; he doesn’t make any movements like he’s going to push Newt away, so Newt just holds him tighter. Hermann leans into him. This time, Newt can instantly tell that his shoulders are shaking not because he’s angry, but because he’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” he says, through the tears, burying his face in Newt’s shoulder, tears soaking Newt’s shirt, the soft, thick fur of the parka tickling his face. “I’m so…I’m so, so sorry, Newton.”

“I know,” Newt murmurs, and holds him tighter; presses soft kisses into Hermann’s hair. “I…I know.”

They stay like that for a while longer; until Hermann’s shoulders stop trembling, and his breathing evens out. “Do you wanna go back inside?” Newt asks, quietly, “it’s warmer in there.”

Hermann doesn’t speak for a few beats; and then: “I…would like that, please.”

“Okay.” Newt nods. “Do you want to go to your room, or somewhere else?”

“I…” Hermann hesitates. “I’d like to stay with you,” he says, finally, the words so quiet Newt almost doesn’t hear them.

“Okay,” Newt says, again; and rises, waiting for Hermann to put his parka on properly before he hands him his cane.

They walk to Newt’s quarters in near-silence; broken only by intermittent sniffles from Hermann, whose nose is already runny from being out in the cold, and probably has only been made worse by the crying, so, first order of business when they get through the door is for Newt to hunt down a box of tissues for him.

He finds an unopened one in the tiny cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, and takes it back to Hermann, who’s settled into Newt’s bed, blankets pulled over himself.

Newt smiles slightly at the sight. “D'you mind if I join you?” he asks, after he hands the box to Hermann. “It’s kinda late, and I’m…wiped out, honestly.”

Hermann bites his lip, and then nods; setting aside the box of tissues, and pulls the covers back a bit, and Newt turns off the light and sticks his glasses on the desk and crawls beneath them with him.

“I was afraid you were going to leave,” Hermann says, after a few moments; his face a blob in the dark; voice quiet and tenuous.

“I know,” Newt says. He reaches out, putting a hand on what he thinks is probably Hermann’s shoulder. “But dude, I want you to know that I’m not just gonna…decide one day that you’re too much or not enough, or whatever, okay? I mean, I’ve known you for over ten years, and we fucking _Drifted._ I promise that if something happens, I’m gonna try and make sure it gets worked out, alright? I promise.”

“…okay,” Hermann whispers, and scoots closer to him. “Can you…can you hold me again? Like you did before?”

Newt nods; and then, when he realises that Hermann probably can’t see it, says, “Yeah, 'course,” and wraps his arms around Hermann. The other lets out a shuddering breath and relaxes slightly into his embrace, and Newt leans a bit to kiss Hermann’s cheek.

“That’s very nice,” Hermann murmurs; and Newt swallows a bark of laughter.

“Course that’s what you’d say,” he says. “C'mere, you bastard.”

“I’m already right here,” Hermann grumbles; a trace of the croakiness still in his voice, but no longer as strong; and Newt smiles.

“Yeah,” he says, and kisses him again; just a small, little kiss on his lips this time. “Yeah, you are.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
